


Survive in That Despair

by thattrainssailed



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gonna put on a big warning for self-harm, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Not specifically cutting but it is somewhat graphic, Relationships don't fix mental health issues but having support is never bad, Self Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: It needs to hurt.It’s the first thought Alec finds when things start to go wrong. He misjudges, he fucks up, he makes the wrong choice. Disappointed eyes find him, mouths already forming cold assurances that they will pick up his slack, and suddenly the craving creeps under his skin, suffocating his nerves until all he can do is move in whatever direction will find him pain.





	Survive in That Despair

It needs to hurt.

It’s the first thought Alec finds when things start to go wrong. He misjudges, he fucks up, he makes the wrong choice. Disappointed eyes find him, mouths already forming cold assurances that they will pick up his slack, and suddenly the craving creeps under his skin, suffocating his nerves until all he can do is move in whatever direction will find him pain.

It starts small. Nails digging into his hand as his young self is reprimanded. Ten years old, bowing his head before his father, memorising all the ways his mistakes could have compromised a mission as they leave his father’s tongue.The force of his tendons isn’t enough to puncture his calloused palm, but the sting nonetheless soothes some part of the sick shame sinking into Alec’s stomach. It isn’t until he is dismissed that he loosens his sharp grip and examines the dark crescent indents against his skin.

It becomes something of a go-to. Whenever he disappoints, isn’t good enough, fails to live up to the Lightwood name, he allows himself that assistance. Pain against his palms as he is dressed down. Unnoticed but effective. It squeezes and bites and he feels something lift, some weight removed with the knowledge that he is feeling the pain that he deserves. He stings himself and then he can move on.

Of course, the worst had not yet come. When it arrives, with blond hair and a cautious gaze, sleeping in the bed across from him, Alec knows that his hands alone cannot relieve this shame.

The first time Alec runs, it is the middle of Winter. The thoughts have recently begun, warm and easy and  _ wrong _ , and Alec cannot stay in that room. He is certain that Jace could sense the impurity present; hear the guilt thudding in Alec’s chest. His palms ache from his own grasp, but it does little to relieve the descending fog in his head. No, he cannot stay. At the age of twelve, in a t-shirt and shorts, he sneaks out of the Institute and begins to run.

The bite of frost against his bare skin has him almost sobbing in relief.

He runs, and he runs, and the Winter air chases him, scratches at him in ribbons of pain until it works its way into his lungs, frozen and sore from the miles he had covered. When he finally stops, his sweat immediately begins to freeze. Alec closes his eyes and let the ice burn. His mind clears, the fog fading to make way for gratitude for his punishment. He gets what he deserves.

The marks on his palms slowly heal in the wake of his new night-time routine.

The frequency cannot last, of course. Somebody is bound to notice the eldest Lightwood child leaving every night only to return hours later breathless and lashed by wind. Suspicion is his greatest enemy. Suspicion of his thoughts, of his desires, of his habits. Strategy breeds best-kept secrecy. And so he moves his exertion to the training room; finds his self-hatred channeled into his knuckles as he splits them over and over against a punching bag. He quickly finds that red leather worked best for his particular exercise. Not being able to see his blood spread over his target allows him better stamina against the pain of his wounds, and it makes things far easier to cover if someone happens to walk in on a late-night session.

And so he finds his poisons. A concoction of miles of shadowed concrete under his feet, and scarlet material against bleeding fists. He works out the shame, leaves footprints against the road and fist-shaped scars against the punching bag. Through the soles of his feet and through his palms, he lets it flow out, inadequacy mixing with sweat mixing with shame. Perhaps some day, the combination of pains might finally come to some point of perfection, and he may find himself cleansed, fixed, made perfect. After all, this harm only comes out of necessity. Relief in punishment.

For over a decade, he steeps his poison.

Then Clary Fairchild happens.

And then, against nights of blood and hatred and gasps for oxygen, he meets Magnus Bane.

Those weeks are… a clusterfuck, to say the least. Demons, missions, revelation after revelation of family histories. The shadow world shakes, begins to crumble. Alec knows it is his fault, and yet through the guilt there is Magnus. Kind and patient and interested. For a short while, Alec’s knuckles see themselves wrapped around the stem of a martini glass rather than hurtling towards red-dripped leather. Instead of straining against night air, his lungs huffs out laughter.

It does not last, of course. The return of his parents and their so familiar disappointment ensure that. His glimpse at happiness fades, and he finds himself aching for pain.

His knees bang against the floorboards when he kneels to propose to Lydia. It does not match the agony writhing within his ribcage.

It never comes to fruition. The entire shadow world knows that soon enough.

It should be cathartic, he supposes, have this dam break after so long. But this is not a truth that sets him free, at least not immediately. Each day he finds eyes on him, watching, judging. Everything he says, every command, every action, every movement, is met with the same calculating sea of faces. His usual escapes are easy to fall into - shadowed concrete and red leather. They are solid. Uncomplicated.

But then there comes a second escape. Magnus. And suddenly his catharsis tangles.

Being with Magnus is… different. New. It’s terrifying at first, rife with opportunities for Alec to fuck up - hell, he even takes a few of them. But Magnus is ever patient, far more understanding that Alec surely deserves, and he finds it devastatingly easy to settle into this thing he has with Magnus. This relationship. They talk. They dine. They explore. The world is only a portal away, and it’s a freedom that Alec has never experienced. For the first time, he has an option for escape other than pain. Magnus kisses him, deep and tender, and it’s a reprieve that Alec could have never found in stinging discipline. But Alec must always leave. When he returns to the Institute, to those eyes that fill the building, the feeling of that space is far too familiar. The craving is far too familiar.

He manages to keep the two separate, for a while.

Then comes the breaking point.

The day starts bad. It’s off the back of a late night spent reading reports, catching inconsistencies, picking up the slack of his  _ parabatai _ because Alec’s so much better at reports, and come on, there’s no point in Jace doing them if Alec’s going to have to go through to fix them afterwards anyway. His alarm jolts him awake after mere hours of sleep and immediately there is a fog in his head, a dense mist that sinks into his cerebellum and leaves him grasping for cognition. Even as he forces himself up and washes his face, the weight presses against his brain.

It’s exhaustingly soon after he leaves his room that he feels the eyes.

They’re on him as soon as he enters the cafeteria. By now, most of the Institute has gotten used to the knowledge of his sexuality. Even those who are most vocally disgusted by him spare him only a withering glance these days. But this morning, the observation is as intense as that very first day, when he had Magnus’ taste on his lips for the very first time. It doesn’t take him long to scan the room and see the group. Clave. About seven of them, all sat around a table, identical expressions of disdain turned towards Alec. Great. Fantastic. Exactly what he wanted today.

It takes little consideration to decide that breakfast is overrated. Paperwork it is, then.

As it turns out, the paperwork is somewhat of a Herculean task in the face of the fog. It swirls from Alec’s mouth to cloud the words as he reads; twists itself around his fingers until he cannot see the words he is writing. He stares down at the page before him, attempting to conjure details of his last mission, only to find that those too have been swallowed by the mist. He wonders why on earth he accepted the task of this paperwork when he’s clearly too useless to do it. His palms start to itch. His head is heavy. Full. Too full.

Alec isn’t sure when he stood. His body makes its own decision in the familiar path to the training room.

It’s blissfully empty when he arrives, and his muscle memory continues as he selects a bag of red leather and hangs it. He makes no effort to wrap his hands. That would defeat the purpose. He takes his stance, raises his arms, and punches.

The impact rattles his hand up to his shoulder. Solid weight meets his bare skin and his bones throb, and the relief seems to come from his very marrow. He hits again. He hits. He hits. The angle is precise, the force practiced. He knows well by now the perfect method for splitting his knuckles.

Time does not exist within pain. What tick by are not seconds, but punches. His lifetime is measured in the wetness that seeps into his curled fists.

The fog begins to part for comfort.

His movements only cease when his sister’s voice floats down the hallway, calling for him. With expert quickness, Alec takes down the bag and returns it to its storage, shoving his hands in his pockets just before Isabelle rounds the corner. He flexes his fingers and returns her smile.

Hours later, he begrudges that smile. Demons seem to have chosen today in particular to attempt an invasion of New York, and the blades and arrows of the shadowhunters’ patrol do little to stem the flow of contorting bodies that emerge from the small rift in Flatbush. Isabelle kneels before the opening, stele working quickly in conjure, while Alec and Jace flank her, taking care of each demon as it crawls from the depths. The ground is already thick with ichor. The stench stings Alec’s eyes.

It’s between one watery blink and the next that Isabelle yelps.

Alec moves on instinct.

When he lands on the stained concrete seconds later, he hazily notes that the impact does not hurt. Although, perhaps that can be explained by the three deep claw marks that have slashed through his side. He sinks his teeth into his lip, breathes in deeply through his nose. The pain shakes his body, twists around his stomach until he thinks he might vomit from it. He squeezes his eyes shut. Focuses on the pain, looks for the familiarity. Blood falls heavy from the wounds. He shakes with pain. Alec does not scream.

It might be seconds or hours later that he feels the energy change. Through the agony, he grasps vaguely that the rift must have closed. It’s all he can think before there are hands on him, rolling him over, and the cold tip of a stele curves over the slashes. The absence of pain is so jarring that Alec rockets bolt upright. Isabelle and Jace immediately steady him as he coughs. They open their mouths, poised to fuss, but Alec holds up a hand. Shakily, he rises to his feet and swallows. There is some protest when he begins to walk north, but they fade as his siblings begrudgingly accept his destination.

The journey to the loft is not a long one from the scene, and the residual haziness from the attack covers much of the ground. Even if he was aware of the distance, it would not have bothered him. His head throbs, his legs shake, his hands sting, and all he can think about is seeing Magnus. Escaping.

He doesn’t have the energy to resist any more concern when Magnus opens the door. Instead, he allows the warlock to draw him inside and sit him down, clever hands running over Alec’s body as he assesses the damage. He mutters under his breath as he does so, admonishing foolish nephilim and their inability to take care of themselves, and Alec closes his eyes as he feels the warmth of magic against his skin, flesh knitting back together over what a hasty  _ iratze _ did not reach. Obediently he lifts his arms when Magnus beckons, allowing his shirt to slide off so his boyfriend can gain what he refers to as, grimly playful, a better view. His fingers work in a frenzy to check for any other wounds, but his breathing is calm. Steady and simple. He works, and Alec keeps his eyes closed and sinks into magic and sandalwood and muttered care, and everything else melts away into catharsis.

It is a lapse.

It’s not until Magnus has already pulled off Alec’s gloves that the shadowhunter remembers that he only had one  _ iratze _ today. He opens his eyes and sits up, but it’s too late.

Magnus stares at the blood caked around Alec’s knuckles. There is no need for Alec to wonder. He knows. He knows.

“Magnus,” he says, and then he stops, because what could come after that? What can he say to save this situation, to somehow convince Magnus that this isn’t what he thinks, that Alec is not this secret failure who must split his fists to keep everything in balance?

Magnus looks up. His expression is unreadable. He does not look away from Alec’s face as warmth blurs his touch and smooths Alec’s hands back to wellness.

He stands and sits beside Alec on the couch. Their hands do not leave each other. Slowly, Magnus moves his, turning them over so that his palms are flush against Alec’s. And suddenly, somehow, through magic or something else, Alec knows.

Marks on the warlock’s hands. Far more plentiful than the natural lines of a palm. They cover the delicate skin, ranging sizes against what should be evenness. Man-made. Self-made. Sealed attempts to draw out the magic from within. Old enough to be healed. Still present.

They look at each other, and they know.

Alec leans forward, seeking out Magnus’ heat. He finds it with his face buried in the warlock’s neck. Hands leave his only to relocate against his bare skin as Magnus wraps his arms around Alec’s middle. Together they sit, quiet and still.

They will have to talk about this, Alec knows. Magnus will not let this rest without a conversation. That will wait, though. For now, he presses his face deeper against his boyfriend’s skin, and in the haze of warmth, he feels relief sink painlessly into his bones.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not mega happy with this one but I'm very glad that I got it done.
> 
> Alec Lightwood and self-harm are... an underexplored concept, I think. An attempt was made here. A lot of the feelings in this are based on my own experiences with self-harm so don't @ me. Title from AJJ's "No More Shame, No More Fear, No More Dread".
> 
> For inevitably more garbage, follow on me [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


End file.
